Honey

Strange and sweet-
It clung to her teeth and lips.
There was no sunshine in it;
But the taste was of fresh grass
And a little bit of Britain.
She imagined ruins and rain.
Smoke curling atop red brick chimneys.

It was like wine, which she hadn’t tried.
But still, it was intoxicating
And had the hint of an edge,
And was the color of clear mustard.

The honey felt strange
And clumsied her tongue with its sweetness.
She did not know what to say
And stood all those times after
Silent, basket in hand
Gazing at the plastic honey bottles,
Seventh aisle of the supermarket,
Refusing to take another taste.

One was enough to understand.

A/N: A little nothing. It means nothing and wasn’t meant for anything. It’s basically up just because I haven’t updated in a while; it’s all for the images and sounds of the words. Hope the poem tasted a little bit like honey!!